


This is a Rescue

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Friendship, Gen, Hurt!Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 08:00:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14160315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: Captured and tortured by a Spanish general, Athos knows he is not getting out of this alive.  An Entry to the March Fete des Mousquetaires competition with the theme "Be Prepared."





	This is a Rescue

**Author's Note:**

> My gratitude as always to Issai for her talents and kindness as a beta-reader. She makes everything better, but the piles of mistakes are still mine. Don't forget to read the other stories in the competition and vote for your favorite. They are all listed on the ffn Fete des Mousquetaires forum.
> 
> Sometimes there is just nothing better than a wounded and miserable Athos to make for an enjoyable weekend :)

Athos could only get one eye open. It wasn’t worth the effort but he struggled anyway. The scent of the place told him he was back in his cell. Three days. Four? He killed two of them the second day. The beating was severe. They didn’t speak — just brutalized his body with fists, boots, an iron bar. Then time blurred, hazed into hurt and sleep punctuated by a clarity only intense pain could command. His throat was raw from screaming but he told them nothing.

His face was stiff and hot, left eye swollen shut, nose maybe broken. He tasted the tang of blood in his mouth, worried it signaled damage from something deep inside. His ribs ached, each breath a painful wheeze. His right knee was ruined and could not hold his weight. His arms and chest bore the fire of dozens of cuts, his back bruised and torn from first a switch, then a club, and maybe he was lashed the last time? The fire trailing up his back said that might be the case. 

He leaned where they had left him, propped awkwardly against one of the stone walls of his cell, legs splayed out in front of him in the damp, dirty straw. There was a water bucket but he could no longer reach it. Opening the one eye had taken all the will he had left. Athos blinked but the dim cell would not come into focus. He shifted his arm to try to wipe at his eye. The weight of the manacle around his wrist overwhelmed him and his hand flicked feebly against his thigh. He was still chained, shackled wrist and ankle, even though he could no longer drag himself the few steps to the piss in the corner. 

Dignity was no longer a concern. He sat in fouled clothes, body aching and trembling, unable to raise a hand to wipe away the blood and sweat running down his face and into his mouth. He’d given no answers, hadn’t betrayed his king or his men. The secrets he carried would never be put in the hands of France’s enemies. The lives he protected were more precious than his own.

Dying in this stinking hole was a foregone conclusion. He wasn’t fighting it now. Either his body was beyond repair or they would eventually get tired of a Musketeer too stubborn to simply die. His lips curled upward in the shadow of a grin. Bastards would never get him to betray his brothers-in-arms. They could choke on his silence even as they ground the life out of him.

His awareness was drifting. There was no daylight to track time passing, only the sputter and flicker of torches outside his cell letting light seep into the cracks below the door. Sometimes muffled voices reached him or the sound of metal. He heard no other screams but his own. It comforted him that none of the others were here. 

Dreams and memories blended so that consciousness was a fluid thing. There were moments when he was acutely aware of something physical like the festering stink of his own body or the rough stone against his cheek. Other times he felt free of himself, wandering a pathway of memories lined with a riot of forget-me-nots and the glint of sunlight on his blade. He sparred with D’Artagnan who became Aramis who became Thomas. He brawled with Porthos in the courtyard of the garrison only to wake to himself struggling to roll off his injured back. The Spanish commander barked his questions but he heard Treville telling him that if he was to be a Musketeer, he had to crawl out of the bottom of the bottle he was trying to drown himself in. There was no room for his drunkenness in Treville’s regiment and there were no second chances. Sometimes he thought he was in Paris, the terrible ache in his limbs and head another attempt to drown Anne’s ghost in wine. But then he found the cell again, the stone, the straw, the smell. And he was alone. No sound of Porthos snoring from the floor, no Aramis to put a damp cloth to his face. 

He knew he was awake now though. The world a swirl of nothing in front of his one good eye, the ache and fire holding onto his body like it was pinning him to his own existence. He knew he lived because it hurt so much. He worked on breathing despite the pain in his rib cage. Every day he lasted, every moment they spent with him, the troop positions shifted, the battle lines changed, and anything they might find out became more and more meaningless. Every day he lasted Aramis, Porthos and D’Artagnan rode further from him, and further from the danger of this death. He longed for them with an ache he did not realize he was capable of feeling but he would never wish them here to die broken alongside him.

His mind latched onto the sound of boots and voices echoing in the corridor. They were coming for him again. He thought this might be the last time. That his ribs were not yet broken was merely a strange twist of fate. If they strung him up again he’d likely die of one puncturing his lungs as they beat him. He didn’t have the strength to last through the cutting again. Whatever they planned next he knew he would not be returning to this cell.

The heavy door creaked open and Athos wearily turned his head enough to see several figures illuminated in the doorway. They were shadowy and ill-formed, his eye refusing to focus properly. It hardly mattered. He had no strength to consider escape or revenge. Two entered with torches and it amused him that they still kept a wide berth despite his weakened condition. Strangely, one of the men affixed his short torch into a bracket near the door. Athos let out a small sigh. It meant he was to die here, not worth the effort to take him from the cell until he was a corpse. 

What Athos did not expect was two more men dragging in a third and dumping him unceremoniously on the floor at Athos’s side. As he tried to focus on who was beside him someone grabbed his chin and forced his head to look up. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his eye, but could not recognize the face that swam before him. But he did know the voice.

“Dawn is in five hours,” the Spanish commander’s oddly accented speech was more than familiar now. His breath smelled of fish and wine as he leaned in nearly nose to nose with Athos, “You can answer my questions then or I start removing his fingers knuckle by knuckle. Enjoy your reunion.” 

Athos’s stomach dropped at the commander’s words and he barely registered the laughter of the men around him as they exited the tiny cell and let the door clang behind them. Athos struggled not to cry out as icy fear gripped his heart. The commander had clearly said “reunion.” The huddled form on the floor was a Musketeer.

Where strength had abandoned him earlier now panic pushed adrenaline into his body. Athos reached toward the man with his good arm, stretching to the limit of his chains to get a hand around the dark fabric of what was probably a cloak. He gripped it and pulled, chest heaving with the effort and a groan escaping from his lips. He had to get the man closer. He had to know who he was. His need was desperate and suddenly it was the most important thing left to Athos to know who was sentenced to die here with him. Athos pulled again, a deep and mournful cry pushing past his lips as his side burned and his arm shook and every inch of his body rebelled against the movement. The cloak shifted and bracing himself with his good leg bent against the floor Athos pulled with all of his remaining strength. The cloak slid along the damp stones as Athos leaned as far over as he could and pulled. 

He was leaning so far to his right that by instinct his arm slipped to the floor to brace himself and pain shot from wrist to shoulder. Athos cried out and dropped the cloak but not before he felt the man bump into his left thigh. He lay on his side panting, pain shooting up his arm but he couldn’t control the limb enough to push himself off of it. His vision grayed and he closed his eye, fighting to still the bile rising from his stomach and deepen his breathing within his straining ribs. 

He fought to stay conscious but time slipped again. Athos struggled to slowly leverage himself back into a sitting position. The man remained motionless, still pressed against his thigh. Torchlight helped Athos’s vision to solidify to make out the shape of a curved hip under the cloak. The figure lay half on his side, one arm curled protectively into his chest and the other splayed forward where he had been dropped. Athos flopped his hand inelegantly onto the man’s head, graceless fingers working the fabric of the cloak from his face. 

A wave of emotion too strong to identify washed over Athos as an unmistakable mop of dark curls sprawled out of the confining fabric. The comfort of having someone by his side after days of captivity was overwhelming. He shifted his hand to lay across the prone man’s cheek, pressing his thumb over his lips to feel steady, strong breaths against his skin. He lived. A swell of gratitude and relief threatened to undo him. 

“Aramis,” the word was little more than a sigh. He tapped his fingers on the side of the marksman’s face. “Aramis,” Athos breathed again but his comrade did not stir. Athos clumsily shifted his hand back into the marksman’s hair, awkwardly carding through the unruly mess until his fingers encountered a lump. He moved his hands around the area as carefully as he could, checking if there was also blood. With nothing at hand to treat a head wound Athos was grateful to find no further sign of injury. 

The head beneath him shifted, a small moan slipping from Aramis’s lips as he tried to roll away from the offending hand. Athos slid his hand back to the marksman’s face and patted awkwardly at his cheek with fingers that did not want to obey him. Aramis mumbled something incoherent and rolled onto his back, wincing when the lump on his head connected with the floor. The marksman’s eyes struggled open and Athos felt his hand encased in Aramis’s strong, warm grip as he pulled it from his face..

“Athos,” he said roughly, smiling up at him, “You’re not dead.” 

A cluster of emotions took Athos’s breath away. The comfort of Aramis’s presence burned with a hope that he would not die here alone. But the guilt of knowing that his relief was at the expense of the torture and death that awaited his friend was more crippling a blow than any he had been served by his captors. He tried to respond but all Athos could manage was a choked back sob as hope and sorrow warred in his heart.

Aramis’s eyes creased in concern even as he tightened his grip reassuringly on Athos’s hand and pulled it to his chest. They had long ago surpassed the need for language to communicate and Athos knew Aramis registered both his relief and his distress. In better circumstances, he would have hidden it behind his carefully cultivated stoicism but here, now he felt emotionally flayed. He had lost all ability to dissemble. His emotions were as raw as the wounds on his body.

The kindness in Aramis’s eyes was too much and Athos rolled his head away and tipped it back against the wall. He closed his eye, fighting back the unexpected swell of tears. He had endured torture and abuse with dry eyes but here was Aramis offering him support and he felt he might break. His chest heaved to take a breath but his wounded ribs protested and all he could manage were short, stuttering pants that did little to calm the conflicting emotions pressing on his heart. 

“Why?” The ugly sound was barely recognizable as a word but he knew Aramis understood. He needed to know why Aramis was here, what had happened to the Musketeers they had been patrolling with? Why wasn’t he safely away with the others where he was supposed to be? All of those questions weighed down that one word.

“This is a rescue,” Aramis answered without a single trace of irony before pushing himself up to stagger to the corner of the cell with the chamber pot and violently hurl the contents of his stomach into the bucket. 

When he was finished the marksman drew himself up and wiped at his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. He looked slightly green and held himself up with a hand to the wall as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes met Athos’s and he gave a small half smile both contrite and cocky at the same time. Of all of the things Athos expected this was not one. But this was Aramis, and really, Athos should have expected anything. He let his head fall back against the wall again and responded in the only way possible. He laughed.

Not deeply, as he had no breath for it, but it was recognizable enough for Aramis to break into a broad grin as he stumbled forward, the chains around his ankles nearly tripping him, to kneel at Athos’s side. Warm, rough hands gripped the sides of his face and it was all Athos could do not to whimper with relief to literally be in the hands of his brother. Instead, he kept his lips pressed tightly together, breathing heavily through his nose and managing to get his left hand to grasp the marksman’s wrist. Aramis’s gaze clouded as he met Athos’s eyes.

“I know,” Aramis said quietly, “I’ve got you,” his eyes turned to steel, “No one else will touch you.” Athos doubted that Aramis could keep the promise in that statement but he let it comfort him nonetheless. He was tired, he hurt and his mind was shutting down. Never mind the danger, the fear, the sorrow. He closed his eye and leaned his head heavily into hands that would never let him fall.

“Athos,” he felt a small tug on his ear, “Stay with me,” the tug came again and he fluttered his eye open to find Aramis’s concerned face peering intently at him. 

“They spared nothing in hurting you,” Aramis couldn’t hide the anger despite the softness of his voice, “Let me see this eye.” The marksman gently pulled at Athos’s left lid, the eye that was swollen shut, and Athos winced at both the pain of Aramis’s manipulations and the seer of even the dim light. 

“Steady,” the marksman encouraged, tightening his grip slightly so Athos could not pull away. After another moment he released the lid, letting his hand trail lightly along Athos’s check and down his jawline. He pressed gently and Athos winced but again Aramis did not let him pull away. “This is just bruised. Your jaw miraculously is still in place. What else did they do to you?” Aramis slipped his hand to gently run along Athos’s left arm. It was as soothing as a caress from a lover and Athos again felt himself drifting into a fuzzy but warm oblivion. 

Aramis was having none of it. He felt the tug again on his earlobe followed by a more insistent pinch. Athos forced his right eye open again, frustrated that the marksman would not leave him in peace. Aramis gave the abused ear a gentle stroke with his thumb before releasing his head to now slide his hand down Athos’s right arm. The pain was excruciating as Aramis gently squeezed his shoulder and Athos let out a gasping moan.

“Stop,” Athos tried ineffectually to push off Aramis’s hand. “I think it’s broken. Stop!” Athos pleaded. Aramis bit his lip and stilled Athos’s other hand as he gently moved his hand down the length of Athos’s right arm.

“Not broken,” Aramis said, the relief clear in his voice. A break in the wrong part of his arm could end Athos’s career as a swordsman, just as a broken hand could end Aramis’s days with a musket. “Your shoulder is dislocated though, that’s why it hurts so much.” Athos nodded in understanding.

“Strung me up,” he mumbled. Aramis’s brow furrowed then his hands shifted to immediately lift the filthy tatters of Athos’s shirt. By the set of his jaw, Athos was certain Aramis did not appreciate the bruising that covered his body. “Not broken,” Athos winced as Aramis pressed at his ribs.

“By the grace of God alone they are not,” the fury was clear, “What are these cuts? What the hell did they do to you?” Aramis shoved the shirt up further, revealing the lacerations slicing across Athos’s chest.

“Wanted to encourage me . . . Troop positions,” Athos said as Aramis’s unrelenting fingers set his wounds on fire again, “Stop. Please.” Athos gripped Aramis’s hand again. He was no longer beyond begging.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis’s tone was tender now, his touch shifting to a gentle pressure over Athos’s heart. Athos steadied his breath, recovering himself as best he could.

“Can you walk?” It seemed an unnecessary question considering they were both in chains, in a cell, with nowhere in particular to go. If their captors wanted him somewhere, they would just drag him as they had been doing the past two days. 

“Athos?” It seemed Aramis wanted an answer anyway.

“Right knee,” Athos sighed, “When they captured me.” Aramis’s attention shifted there, taking the knee between his hands and gently pressing along the sides before manipulating the joint slightly to the left and right. 

“Can you bend it at all?” Aramis asked. His voice sounded distant. Athos knew his strength was fading.

“Mmm...no,” Athos mumbled. Aramis forced his knee into a slight bend and Athos cried out weakly but the pain was still not enough to rouse him fully. He had known for days now he’d die here but that he wasn’t alone, that Aramis’s hands were on his body, let a warmth spread from his heart. The pain was fading as the world turned grey. Aramis called his name but Athos knew he was already too far away to answer. The warm hands were on his face again and Athos thought he might be smiling as he sunk into the blackness that had been calling him all along.

\--TTM--TTM--TTM--

The feel of a cool, damp cloth on his chest brought Athos slowly back to consciousness. It took him a moment to register what the sensation was and another to remember who was there with him. His head was pillowed on something softer than the stones of the cell and he felt warm despite his chest being bare. He didn’t open his eyes, but he shifted his left hand to find his torso tightly wrapped.

“Leave that be,” Aramis spoke quietly, his tone soothing despite the insistence of his instructions. He caught up Athos’s hand and laid it gently at his side again, “I’ve wrapped your ribs. That should help your breathing.” Aramis patted Athos’s side gently, “Just stay still. I’m managing the worst of these cuts.” Athos nodded, leaving his eyes closed and taking in the sensations of the cool water against his hot skin, the sting of the cuts as each one was cleaned, and the comfort of the tight bandages giving support to his breathing. 

“How are you here?” Athos asked, feeling more coherent than the last time he was conscious.

“They took me on the road to Perpignan with dispatches from General Marchand,” Aramis continued to work as he talked, “It took a little convincing but they threw me in here with you.”

“Convincing?” Athos was not certain he would like the rest of this story.

“Having captured one Musketeer already, they were not certain they wanted two,” Athos could hear the slight smugness in Aramis’s tone. The marksman was clearly proud of himself, “I may have let slip that you were the Captain of the regiment. Would die before you would betray your country and there was nothing you valued more than the lives of your men. They decided to put that to the test.” 

Athos gave a derisive snort. Aramis had let nothing slip, he had manipulated the Spanish commander into believing that Athos would give up the troop positions in exchange for Aramis’s life. The five hours he had given them was designed to inspire Athos to save his sword-brother.

Athos felt the anger rising in his chest as Aramis set aside the cloth. Aramis’s recklessness was as legendary as his shooting. There was no nobility in the fool dying here with him. Athos wondered where Porthos and D’Artagnan were - and why Aramis himself had been playing courier for Marchand. Athos was about to ask when Aramis’s fingers pinched slightly at his flesh. It was unpleasant but not entirely painful until Aramis stuck him with a needle. Athos winced and bit his lip to keep from crying out.

“Apologies,” Aramis didn’t sound particularly contrite, “when I sewed the first two, you were still unconscious.” Athos exhaled sharply as the marksman continued his stitching. It was painful but bearable compared to all he had recently endured.

“How do you have that?” Athos asked tautly, “The needle?”

“Well I hardly came unprepared,” Aramis said as deft fingers moved the needle quickly but efficiently through Athos’s skin. Athos sighed. Aramis had planned to be captured. 

“I tend to find that after they have disarmed you, taken your belts, purse and powder and then knocked you unconscious they don’t look very closely after that,” the smug tone was back, “My surgical kit was in my sleeve,” there was a slight tug at Athos’s flesh and then Aramis leaned over to bite through the thread he had tied off. A gentle hand laid itself on the wound, thumb stroking softly to soothe the troubled skin around the fresh sutures.

“I expected you might not be in very good shape after five days under General Gomez’s care,” the tenderness in Aramis’s voice was disarming. As much as Athos was angry at him for his foolishness he was grateful for his presence. Now was not the time for rebukes anyway. 

“Five days?” Athos opened his good eye to peer at Aramis, “I thought no more than three, perhaps a fourth. . .” Athos trailed off, discomfited at the jumble of memories and the loss of time. 

“By the looks of you those days were rough,” Aramis slipped a hand under Athos’s head, “I would not be so keen to remember them. Can you sit up?” Athos was loath to move but he nodded against Aramis’s hand. With Aramis’s help, Athos got himself back into the position against the wall where he had been when the marksman was dumped at his feet. Chained to the wall, he had little enough range of motion that sitting or lying down along the wall were his only options. 

Athos’s head swam as his right eye refused again to focus properly. He tried to say something but his voice cracked and instead he gave a small cough, jostling his ribs and sending an ache into his side that forced his breath from him. Athos knew his body was at the edge of its limits. Still, he fought to regain his breath, Aramis’s hands on his chest and side offering support and comfort until Athos gave him a nod to say he was alright.

“Lean forward slightly,” Aramis said, applying light pressure to the nape of Athos’s neck. Athos complied, shifting forward heavily only to be caught and steadied by Aramis’s other hand against his sternum. Once he had his balance Aramis let go and gracefully pulled the cloak that had been draped over Athos’s legs over his bare shoulders. The fabric dropped behind him and Aramis gently settled him back against the wall, then nestled the rest of the rough wool around his shoulder and over his bare chest.

“My shirt…” Athos finally noticed it was missing.

“What do you think is wrapping your ribs?” Aramis gave a mischievous smile, “I certainly wasn’t going to sacrifice mine.” Aramis stood and steadied himself against the wall before moving to the water bucket. He bent to pick it up the rope handle, rising slowly and pausing to regain his balance. The typically graceful marksman moved woozily as if he were drunk, feet shuffling against the floor and the short chain binding his ankles threatening to topple him. Athos watched his awkward movements as Aramis returned with the water, trying resolutely not to slosh it all over himself. Aramis set the bucket where it would be easily to hand and fished out the small, cracked earthenware cup that rested at the bottom. He squatted down beside Athos holding the cup to his mouth.

“You’re injured,” Athos said wearily against the cup.

“I’m fine,” Aramis answered, tipping the water past Athos’s lips. The cool water was a relief as it slid down his raw throat. He had not been able to get to the water bucket on his own for a long while now. Athos finished the entire cup and half of the next before turning his head away to signal he was done.

“Here,” Aramis said, holding out a dry, brown bit of what looked like wood, “Chew this.” Athos eyed him warily. Aramis gave an expectant tip of his head and Athos rolled his eyes but nevertheless took the stuff from Aramis and slipped it between his teeth. His mouth was instantly awash in a bitter swill as he chewed on the tough substance. Athos’s disgusted look brought a smile to Aramis’s eyes.

“It’s willow bark,” Aramis said sympathetically, “I’d normally put it in a tea but we currently don’t have the means.” Athos looked up at the marksman his eyes asking why he was chewing on tree bark. 

“You have a fever.” Athos raised his brows incredulously and Aramis continued, “I know you feel cold, but your cheeks are flushed and your body all too warm for the chill in this cell. The juices of willow bark will reduce the fever. It’s more tolerable in tea, but it works just as well like this,” Aramis gave Athos a reassuring pat on the arm. “I have more water here when you are ready but chew as much as you can.”

“Was this up your sleeve too?” Athos said around a mouthful of pulp.

“No, no. That was in my pocket,” Athos’s eyes widened and Aramis chuckled, “It was a clean pocket.”

Aramis settled down companionably next to Athos like they might be sharing a bench in a crowded tavern. The marksman made himself comfortable, leaning his shoulder and leg alongside Athos and resting his head against the wall. Athos thought about making a snide comment but in truth, he was grateful for the warm press of Aramis’s body against his own and the gentle care he had received at his hands. 

Athos chewed dutifully at the bark until Aramis took pity on him and had him spit it out in the cup. Aramis tossed it out somewhere across the cell, rinsed the cup and then gave Athos more water. He was too tired to even try and lift his hand to take the cup and continued to let Aramis help him. The marksman tugged the cloak more closely around Athos’s body then settled against the wall again.

“I thought this was a rescue,” Athos slurred as exhaustion started to claim his body.

“It is,” Aramis spoke softly, “All we have to do is get out of these chains, set your shoulder, brace your knee, and overpower the guards,” Aramis shifted his hand to lay gently on Athos’s thigh, “Get some rest.” Athos had nothing left in him to put up an argument. He closed his eye and leaned against Aramis letting sleep wash over him.

\--TTM--TTM--TTM--

Athos woke to the sounds of men shouting. It was a cacophony of voices at first, too much for Athos to understand until he realized some of the shouting was in Spanish. His face felt hot and stretched, the left side throbbing as if it might burst like an overripe melon. As he struggled to open at least his right eye he realized Aramis was no longer at his side. A spike of panic shot through Athos and despite the pain, he pushed himself to sit up further on the wall and blinked his eye bring it into focus.

Aramis was standing at the other side of their small cell, holding on to the bars that separated their cell from the one next to it. He was shouting a string of colorful expletives in both French and Spanish as four men wrestled a fifth in the other cell. There was the distinctive sound of a fist connecting with a jaw and a triumphant shout.

“Come on then! Who else?” the challenger shouted with a snarl and Athos felt his stomach drop. Porthos. 

He couldn’t see much of the melee but it seemed Porthos’s taunt enraged the other four men enough that they flung themselves at the fighter. Strong as he was even Porthos could not keep on his feet under the onslaught. There were more sounds of fists hitting flesh, grunts and cries of pain, and Aramis yelling at them to keep their filthy hands off a Musketeer and offering dire consequences to all of them. At least that was the part Athos could understand but he assumed the Spanish words were more of the same. 

Porthos managed to rise to his feet with a roar but one of the guards got past his guard and connect a blow to the side of the fighter’s head. Porthos went down hard. They dragged the big man to the wall to chain him hand and foot much as he himself was chained. Dazed but not out, Porthos struggled still as they worked to fasten the manacles.

“What the hell happened,” Aramis barked out angrily.

“What do ya think?” Porthos snarled, “They were guardin’ the western gate. They’ll have the squadron to heel by now.”

“Just tell them everything then,” Aramis shouted and threw up his hands, “Tell them where we are, how many of us, just tell them!”

“Aramis it’s not like these idiots speak French,” Porthos sounded tired, “Besides it was a ridiculous plan. I told you it would never work.”

“Then why are you here?” Aramis put his hands on his hips looking every bit like he wished his pistols were at hand, “I told you I would take care of this.”

“Like I was going to do nothing after you dragged D’Artagnan into this,” Porthos struggled to get up but the soldiers forced him back to the floor, “Someone had to watch his back!”

“And how’s that going?” sarcasm dripped from Aramis’s voice.

“Is it the little one you discuss?” One of the guards said in heavily accented French, “The one we are currently pulling out of the moat?” The guard stood and faced Aramis through the bars, a grin spreading across his face. Aramis hung his head, raking a hand through his hair. The marksman let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh yes, we found him too. The big one is right. Your rescue plan was . . . how you say, ridiculous.” The guard said something Athos didn’t understand and two of the men left the cell.

“This is your fault!” Aramis was pressed up against the bars again, yelling at Porthos.

“How is it my fault?” Porthos yelled back, and this time the remaining guards backed away, letting him rise to his feet, “You’re damn lucky I’m not in there with you.” The guard who spoke French laughed then said something in Spanish to his companion who also chuckled while Aramis and Porthos glared at each other through the bars. 

Athos’s stomach twisted. Aramis was a reckless fool but Porthos and D’Artagnan were no better to have gone along with it. And it sounded as if they had a squadron of Musketeers on the run as well. Five days he had been in this hell hole, protecting all of them with his silence, and now his death, all of theirs, would be for nothing. 

Any hope that their fourth might have gotten away was dashed when the two guards returned half carrying a drenched and shivering D’Artagnan between them. The Gascon was wearing only his soaking wet shirt and breeches, no boots or stockings on his feet and wet hair was plastered over his bruised face. The guards manacled his wrists and then forced the young swordsman to his knees at the center of the room. They threaded a short chain through an iron ring on the floor and left D’Artagnan kneeling and shivering in the cold cell. The door slamming behind them was a final as the headsman’s ax descending on the block. 

A tense silence hung between them as they listened to the retreating footsteps of the Spanish guards punctuated with bouts of receding laughter and the sounds of D’Artagnan’s suffering from the cold. Athos felt hollowed out, betrayed by the men he called brothers. He didn’t have enough strength for anger left in his brutalized body but he felt hope leach from his heart to leave him as cold and alone in his cell as he was before Aramis had arrived. 

When the last of the laughter faded away, Aramis shifted quickly to squat by the bars across from D’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan!” Aramis called softly, “Are you with us?” 

“Mm here,” the young swordsman answered through chattering teeth, “C...cold.”

“Try ‘n curl up,” all the rage had left Porthos’s voice, “Stay warm.”

“Other than being half drowned, are you hurt?” Aramis asked.

“N..no,” D’Artagnan slid off his knees and tucked his legs into his chest, wrapping his arms around them, “Took a f..fist in the j..jaw,” he stuttered, “B..but ‘m ff..fine.” A clatter of chains pulled everyone’s attention to where Porthos stood, manacles no longer around his wrists. The big man gave a short laugh and held up a thin length of metal.

“You never fail me, baby,” Porthos smiled and gave the lockpick a kiss. He bent to the ground and started on his ankles.

“How?” Athos’s words were little more than a breath.

“They never search my hair,” Athos could hear the bold smile in Porthos’s words.

Aramis turned to look at Athos from over his shoulder, the cocky grin having returned to his face, “I’m not the only one who came prepared.” 

Prepared? Athos’s mind tumbled around the word. Their rescue plan had gone to hell, they had been at each other’s throats a minute ago, and even with the lockpick to get them out of their chains they were defenseless against the Spanish guards. Try as he would, Athos couldn’t fathom what was going on. His confusion must have registered on his face as Aramis lost the smile to a look of concern. He pushed up from where he was still squatting near D’Artagnan and with a look to behind him to make sure his comrades were alright, he moved to kneel beside Athos. 

“Athos,” the marksman placed his hands on the sides of his head again but this time Aramis’s fingers felt cold against his taut skin. “He’s fevered,” Aramis called over his shoulder, “We need to get him out of here. Athos,” Aramis said as he turned his attention back to the swordsman, “How are you feeling?” Athos licked dry lips and thought about what he was supposed to say.

“Here,” he felt the cup pressed against his lips and drank, the cool liquid soothing. “Remember this? The willow bark?” Aramis held up more of the stuff from earlier. Athos nodded his head. He felt Aramis press it to his lips and he let the marksman put it into his mouth. “Try and chew that.” Athos nodded and did as he was asked although it was more difficult this time to remember to keep chewing without Aramis giving a nod or a tap now and again.

There was another clatter of chains and Athos saw Porthos rise and move to where D’Artagnan was huddled on the floor.

“Let me see that,” Porthos said, reaching to pull one of D’Artagnan’s hands away from where he was curled around himself, “You’re shiverin’ like a leaf,” Porthos said as he positioned D’Artagnan’s wrist across his lap.

“Just hurry up,” D’Artagnan chattered.

“This is an easy one,” Porthos said and the first cuff clicked open, “Give me the other,” Porthos said and with a shifting of chains D’Artagnan sat up, leaning heavily against Porthos’s shoulder and putting his other arm in the man’s lap.

“You’re gettin’ me wet,” Porthos chided but there was no malice in his voice. In another moment the second iron cuff clicked open and fell with the chain to the floor.

“Get him out of those wet clothes,” Aramis called out before turning back to Athos and slipping the cloak open. As loathe as he was to give it up and as fuzzy as his brain was working, Athos knew D’Artagnan needed something to warm him and he shifted forward to help Aramis pull the cloak from his shoulders.

“Hey, no,” Aramis gently pushed Athos back against the wall, “I’m just checking the sutures and the ribs. Keep that on.”

“D’Artagnan . . .,” Athos raised a hand to feebly point at the Gascon who was struggling to get out of his wet shirt. 

“A gallant gesture, but unnecessary,” Aramis smiled at him while he poked at the flesh around the sutures. Athos winced and bit harder on the bark in his mouth. 

Over Aramis’s shoulder, he could see D’Artagnan lost beneath the wet shirt. Beside him, Porthos was unbuckling the belts on his leathers before pulling his shirt out from his breeches. He raised up his shirt and Athos could see something tied around his waist. Tugging and pulling Porthos pulled a small white bundle from underneath his shirt and then started to unwind the fabric secured around his torso. D’Artagnan finally got himself out of the wet shirt and stood bare-chested, his hands tucked into his armpits, watching Porthos intently. Porthos handed over the bundle and with a tug at a bit of twine, the fabric unfurled to reveal a white shirt. Next came the soft cloth breaches that Porthos had untied from around his waist. 

“See, we’ve got him,” Aramis smiled at Athos as he tugged to tighten the cloth strips around Athos’s ribs, “Apparently no one bothers to see what might be under a big man’s shirt,” Aramis explained.

“Get the boy dressed,” Aramis called out over his shoulder as he slipped cold fingers over Athos’s dislocated shoulder and gently prodded, “I need your help here.” 

“Four years at war,” D’Artagnan called from under the folds of his shirt, “You can stop calling me a boy.”

“You should hear what he calls me,” Porthos said with a smirk as he tugged the shirt over D’Artagnan’s head, “Hate to say, but the guard called you ‘the little one’ earlier. You are on the scrawny side for a Musketeer.”

“Can you just get his pants off and get over here,” Aramis interrupted what was sure to have been a debate, “Our friend the General promised to visit us at first light.”

“It was about an hour to dawn when they fished me from the moat,” D’Artagnan offered as he leaned on Porthos’s shoulder while the big man knelt to peel D’Artagnan’s wet trousers from his body. He tossed them to the floor then handed D’Artagnan the ones he had hidden around his waist.

“Can you get these on yerself?” he asked, “I’m gonna get that door open.”

“I’m good,” D’Artagnan said, slipping one foot into the breeches, “These are still warm. Thank God you are a chimney.” That got a chuckle from Porthos who was bent over the lock at the cell door.

Athos grunted in pain as Aramis lightly manipulated the shoulder. “This is looser than earlier,” he said, pressing gently at the joint, “We can get that back in place.” He gave Athos a reassuring pat as he drew the cloak around him again. Next Aramis fished the cup from the water bucket and held it out to Athos. As he had earlier, he spit the pulp of the willow bark into the cup and let Aramis fling it off somewhere in the cell. Aramis filled the cup and helped Athos to drink as Porthos and D’Artagnan made their way into the cell.

“Athos,” Porthos said shaking his head as he knelt on his right side, “Yer a sight.” 

Athos couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his mouth at Porthos’s blunt honesty. Despite his teasing words, Porthos’s gaze was nothing but fond as he leaned to press a kiss against Athos’s head. “No more solo missions,” the big man whispered, “Don’t care if Louis himself sends ya, we’re coming next time.”

Athos shifted his head to look at D’Artagnan on his left. The young swordsman was kneeling beside him, knuckles pressed to his mouth and his eyes damp. Athos raised a concerned brow and reached out to put a hand on D’Artagnan’s forearm. “I’m alright,” Athos said gruffly with as much conviction as he could muster, “Do I really look that bad?”

D’Artagnan gave a chuckle and shook off the worry that had clouded his face, “Yes,” he smiled down at Athos, patting his hand, “You really do.”

“You three are mad,” Athos said as Porthos got started on releasing the manacles around Athos’s wrists, “But I won’t say I’m not grateful to see you. Although I would prefer it if your rescue attempt had not been interrupted,” Aramis looked at Athos, confusion running across his face.

“Interrupted?” Aramis seemed surprised, “I’d say it’s working perfectly.” 

“But they’ve been captured,” Athos nodded toward D’Artagnan, “He’s half drowned, we have no weapons, and Porthos said the squadron was routed at the Western gate.”

“You were more awake than I thought,” Aramis smiled indulgently at him as he shifted to Athos’s right side to kneel beside Porthos. Aramis gently took up Athos’s right hand, mindful of the abrasions around his wrist, “D’Artagnan, show the man how unarmed you are while Porthos and I get his shoulder back in place.”

D’Artagnan gave Aramis a companionable nod picked up his wet shirt, shifting it in his lap until he found the bottom edge. “Porthos, if I may borrow your lockpick,” D’Artagnan asked politely. 

He stretched his hand out over Athos and Porthos produced the thin sliver of metal placed it in D’Artagnan’s palm with a flourish. Athos watched as the young swordsman used the lockpick to rip at the seams along the hem of his shirt. He got it open enough to worm his fingers in then pulled, ripping an even larger hole. D’Artagnan upended the edge of the shirt and pulled a thin cloth wrapped bundle from inside the hem. He unrolled it and the thin blade of a stiletto fell into his palm. D’Artagnan held it up triumphantly before him.

“No one thought to even search me after they dragged me out of the water,” D’Artagnan said, “They didn’t think a half-drowned man could possibly have any other weapon than the main gauche between his teeth.”

“It’s a blade,” Athos said flatly, “There’s no handle.”

“Hang on there,” Aramis said, gently passing Athos’s arm to Porthos. Aramis leaned over Athos and pulled at the edge of the cloak. With a tug and a twist he pulled the decorative clasp from off the garment. He held it up for Athos to see, “One handle.” He handed it off to D’Artagnan then put his hands on Athos’s right shoulder. Porthos stretched his arm and Athos tried to hold back a groan while Aramis made slight adjustments to its position.

“Relax, Athos,” Aramis said, “I still need to get this aligned. I’ll tell you before we do it.” Athos nodded and turned back to see what D’Artagnan was going to do next when a quick, hard pull on his arm caused him to scream in agony. His shoulder felt like molten fire and his vision grayed as he slumped to his left. Strong hands did not let him fall though, and as the pain receded he found himself lying against Porthos’s chest, Aramis’s hand gently wiping his face with a damp bit of cloth. 

“It’s done, you’re alright,” Aramis was saying soothingly.

“You said you’d tell me,” Athos got out between pained breaths.

“I lied,” Aramis answered, “Let’s get this wrapped.” 

Porthos shifted Athos into a sitting position and the marksman unwound his sash from his waist and used it to bind Athos’s right arm against his chest. It still hurt, but it wasn’t the excruciating pain from earlier. Athos concentrated on breathing and focused on D’Artagnan who was screwing the threaded tang of the blade into the hollowed out handle. 

“What else?” Porthos said as he helped lean Athos back against the wall.

“Get the shackles off his ankles. D’Artagnan, rip your wet shirt into strips for bandages,” Aramis said, reaching to take the blade from D’Artagnan, “I’m going to do something about that eye.” Porthos gave a nod and shifted to work on the cuffs at Athos’s ankles while Aramis kneeled by Athos’s right side, putting a hand gently to his cheek.

“Your eye is not damaged,” Aramis said seriously, “But the blood from the beatings has pooled inside and this is causing swelling. If I make a small cut here,” and Aramis placed a finger just under Athos’s eyebrow, “it will release the blood and you will be able to open your eye.” 

Aramis looked expectantly at Athos, waiting for the swordsman to give him permission. Athos was still reeling from what they had done to his shoulder, not really able to think if this was or wasn’t a good idea. But it was Aramis and he might have told him he was going to take his eye out of his head and Athos would say yes at this point. He gave a nod of acquiescence and closed his eye.

Aramis repositioned his hands so that one was pressing Athos’s head against the wall while pulling up slightly on Athos’s forehead with his thumb. “I’ll be quick. It should not hurt much.” Athos tried to stay as still as possible. He felt the cool press of the knifepoint at the ridge just above his eye and then a quick sting and warm blood gushed down his face. Something soft was immediately pressed against his eye. “Here,” Aramis took up his left hand and put it to his head where he was pressing the cloth, “Hold this here, keep steady pressure on it.” 

Athos took the cloth from between Aramis’s fingers and did as he was told. The cut had been minor compared to what he had endured and despite the sting already his face felt less hot, less stretched than it had earlier. Another pair of hands was wiping the blood from his face with a damp bit of cloth, D’Artagnan he thought as the touch was gentle but slightly unsure. Despite the years at war without him, treating the wounds still remained Aramis’s job. Athos felt a tug at his breeches and then a ripping sound as someone shredded the fabric.

“What are you doing,” Athos was breathless, his shoulder and ribs aching as he struggled to maintain his breathing. 

“Bracing your knee,” Aramis was curt, a sign he was concentrating, “Porthos isn’t carrying you out of here. You’re walking.” Athos felt his leg raised slightly and the remnants of D’Artagnan’s wet shirt were quickly and tightly tied around the joint.

“Stop, enough,” Athos’s body was overwhelmed and he felt tremors starting to run up his leg. Too much had happened too quickly and what they were doing now to help him felt more like what the guards had done to him for days. “Please, stop . . . Please.” Athos dropped the cloth from between his fingers and his head lolled back against the wall. This rescue felt like it might kill him.

“It’s done,” Aramis was beside him again, wiping the sweat from Athos’s face with the last bit of D’Artagnan’s shirt. “I’ll make it up to you when we are out of here, yes?” Aramis smiled at him but Athos was too drained to do more than blink at him. He did notice however that both eyes were open and his vision much improved. Aramis laid a hand on Athos’s forehead and scrunched his brow in concern.

“This fever is no worse,” Aramis peered down at Athos, “Is it the pain?” Athos closed his eyes and nodded, not trusting his voice to be anything less than a sob. “Sssh, stay still,” Aramis soothed, “I can help with that.” Athos had no intention of moving regardless.

“D’Artagnan, some water please,” Athos heard the Gascon dip the cup into the bucket. Porthos knelt at Athos’s other side, a large warm hand resting comfortingly on Athos’s shoulder. Athos felt something light lay across his chest and opened his eyes enough to see Aramis’s hat laying upside down. Aramis released his hold on Athos’s head and fingered along the hatband. He slipped a small vial from the ribbon, a tiny cork holding back amber liquid. 

“Laudanum,” he said softly, holding up the bottle so Athos could see it, “Just enough to take the edge off the pain.” D’Artagnan passed Aramis the cup and the marksman delicately pulled the cork with his teeth and poured a small amount. He gave it a quick swirl then pressed the cup to Athos’s lips, encouraging him to drink. It was not nearly as bitter as chewing the willow bark had been and Athos quickly swallowed it all down. Just as he finished, the sounds of voices and footfalls echoed from the hallway. 

“Gentlemen,” Aramis said giving Porthos and D’Artagnan a meaningful look. The two Musketeers rose and took up position on either side of the cell door. D’Artagnan had the stiletto to the ready and Porthos stood with fists balled, the only weapon he needed against hapless guards. Aramis quickly replaced his hat on his head and tucked the cloak tightly around Athos’s body, covering the bandages. Aramis stood and moved toward the back wall of the cell and leaned nonchalantly as if the last five hours had been passed at a tavern, not in a prison cell.

The door opened with a bang and the French-speaking guard was the first to enter. He stalked smugly into the room, taking in Athos huddled on the floor and Aramis leaning on the wall, ankle irons keeping him easily out of the Musketeer’s reach.

“Dawn always comes too soon for condemned men,” he said with a sneer. Athos watched Aramis raise his head, his eyes glittering beneath the brim of his hat. Athos didn’t feel one bit of remorse for what was about to happen. Aramis raised his hands in a half shrug as if agreeing with the Spaniard when suddenly the entire room was in motion.

Two guards who were immediately behind the first were caught by D’Artagnan and Porthos as soon as they entered. D’Artagnan grabbed one and pressed his back against his chest, already slicing through the man’s neck as he dragged him backward into the cell. Porthos grabbed the one nearest him and flung him forward, into the guard facing Aramis. The French-speaker stumbled into the waiting arms of the marksman who had him in a choke hold before he had even stopped moving. Reaching to the guard’s belt, Aramis pressed the man’s own dagger into his throat. Porthos had to reach into the hallway to pull in the last guard who he flung into D’Artagnan’s arms even as Porthos got the door closed again. The final man was just staggering back to his feet when a mighty blow from Porthos’s fist slammed him back into the ground. The fight was over before the guards knew it had started. They lined the dead men along the wall on either side of the door and stood to assess them. D’Artagnan cocked his head and stepped to one of the men, lifting up his leg by an ankle.

“These should fit,” D’Artagnan said with a shrug, unceremoniously dropping the leg back to the ground. With Porthos’s help, he started quickly stripping off the man’s boots and clothes while Aramis found a ring of keys on one of the guards and set to unlocking the shackles still around his ankles. D’Artagnan got the guard’s leather coat on, then wiggled into the boots while Porthos took the man’s weapons belts off and fastened them over the Gascon’s slim waist. 

“You are little,” Porthos said as he worked, “You need to eat more.” D’Artagnan flashed him a look but skipped the rebuttal. They were on a tight schedule.

Aramis stripped another man of his coat and weapons belt and got himself dressed as well. He bent to pull weapons and powder from the others, along with their daggers. In under five minutes, D’Artagnan and Aramis were dressed like Spanish guards and all three of them were armed to the teeth.

“Time to go,” Aramis said as he and Porthos got Athos to his feet. Porthos took the cloak from over Athos’s shoulders and Aramis got Athos into his doublet, putting his left arm through the sleeve. He left the right arm empty and buckled up enough of the straps to keep it mostly closed. As a last touch, Aramis crammed his own hat on Athos’s head and put on one of the helmets from the guardsman. Porthos draped the cloak over his own shoulders and pulled up the hood, then got to Athos’s left side and slung the swordsman’s arm over his shoulder. 

“You ready?” Porthos asked, his arm tightly around Athos’s hips so as to avoid squeezing his ribs. Athos had to admit the laudanum had done a world of good. He felt woozy and the world was watery but the ache in his body was receding to dull a thumping and while his knee hurt, he found he could put weight on it.

“Where we going?” Athos felt oddly detached from the words. Had he really said them?

Aramis gave a confident smile, “The general is expecting two Musketeers at dawn and it’s best we don’t keep him waiting.”

Athos wasn’t entirely sure what was happening but with Porthos’s strong arms supporting him he didn’t protest. D’Artagnan led the way boldly down the corridor and Aramis brought up the rear, two Spanish guards escorting their Musketeer prisoners to the General. That they weren’t exactly the same two Musketeers didn’t register with the other soldiers they passed. 

D’Artagnan led them unerringly through a series of hallways and then up a steep flight of stairs that Athos had not encountered on previous trips outside his cell, or at least he didn’t remember them. They paused at the top before a great wooden door and Aramis passed the key ring he had taken from the guard over to D’Artagnan. While the Gascon worked to find the correct key for the lock, Athos sagged into Porthos’s grip, their journey thus far having taken most of his strength. A strong hand squeezed the back of his neck gently.

“Not much further,” Aramis’s reassuring voice came from behind him, “We just need to cross the courtyard. There’s an unused gate to the rear of the stables.” Athos’s head lolled against Porthos’s shoulder but he tried to make sense of what Aramis was saying. He felt his knees giving way but Porthos’s grip shifted and he found himself leaning against the big man’s chest. Aramis got his hands on either side of Athos’s face, peering intently into his eyes.

“Do you know where we are?” Aramis quizzed him. Athos considered.

“The palace?” He wasn’t sure that was right.

“Too much laudanum,” Porthos’s chest rumbled behind him as he spoke.

“Possibly,” Aramis said, gently lifting one of Athos’s eyelids, “Also fever, exhaustion, maybe a blow to the head.” He saw the concern on Aramis’s face and realized it was him causing the worry. He put his left hand on Aramis’s forearm.

“I’m fine,” Athos told him.

“You are far from fine,” Aramis said with a chuckle, “But you will be once we get out of here and back to Perpignan.”

Perpignan. That registered. He had been captured on his way back from General Marchand’s outpost at Argeles-sur-Mer on the Spanish border.

“I didn’t tell them anything,” Athos said desperately, his voice breaking. He felt Porthos’s grip tighten around him.

“‘Course you didn’t,” Porthos’s voice was strong and confident in his ear, “You did great.”

“It’s clear, let’s go,” D’Artagnan’s voice sounded from above him. Athos was shifted, his arm again slung over Porthos’s shoulder and the big man’s grip tightened on his waist. Aramis’s hand was at his neck again.

“You just stay on your feet long enough to get across that courtyard,” Aramis said from behind him, “That’s your only job. We’ll do the rest.” Athos nodded. Stay on his feet. He could do that.

As they pushed through the door into the morning sunlight Athos thought perhaps his one job would be too much for him. The light seared his prison-dimmed eyes and the cold winds from the sea were like needles piercing his over warm skin. Each step sent a line of fire up his leg and the deep breaths he took against the pain made his ribs feel as if they were collapsing inside of him. His step faltered and Porthos shifted to take more of Athos’s weight. Athos knew he couldn’t fall. They were counting on him to do his job and while Athos might fail himself, he would never fail these men. He moved forward.

They crossed the courtyard unchallenged but at the back of the stables, they found three soldiers at guard. It was immediately clear that neither party had expected the other to be there. D’Artagnan drew his weapons and was on the first one before the guard could get his rapier from his holder. The next guard surged forward but was met with a kick to gut by Porthos. The third drew a pistol and took a line directly toward Athos’s head just as a shot from behind him struck the guard in the middle of the forehead. 

“Let’s move,” Porthos said urgently while D’Artagnan shoved against the rusted iron gate. Behind them, Aramis shouted something in Spanish.

“What are you doing?” Porthos called out to the marksman.

“I told them the shot misfired while I was cleaning my pistol,” Aramis shouted back. A shot rang out, the lead ball hitting the wall above Porthos’s head.

“I don’t think they believed you!” Porthos yelled. 

Aramis ran to them as shouts rose from the courtyard. Athos felt himself pushed forward and then he was caught up by Aramis before he could even shift his legs to steady himself. Porthos shoved his shoulder against the gate, pushing with all of his might. D’Artagnan drew his pistols and dropped two soldiers as they came around the back of the stable. With a groan and a clatter, the gate was off its hinges and Porthos was pulling Athos and Aramis through the opening.

As they all tumbled to the other side they were met with a regiment of soldiers, sashed and cloaked in Musketeer blue. Aramis shifted Athos to the ground as the Musketeers poured through the gate. 

“Porthos said the squadron was routed at the western gate,” Athos said, trying to keep things straight in his mind.

“Not a squadron,” D’Artagnan smiled beside him, reloading his stolen pistols, “Just Henri and Etienne to lead their patrols on a merry chase.”

“The rest of the regiment was waiting here,” Porthos explained. “Aramis found out about the gate from a former scullery maid. You know how persuasive he is,” the big man added with a wink. 

“You brought the entire regiment?” Athos said has he sagged exhaustedly into Aramis’s comforting hold.

“Well,” Aramis said with a smile, “I like to be prepared.”

 

-FIN-


End file.
